


Abracadabra, Alakazam

by kelex



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 05:10:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19350145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelex/pseuds/kelex
Summary: In which The Amazing Mr. Fell convinces a certain demon to be his assistant for his magician's act.  It's for a good cause, of course, but still...





	Abracadabra, Alakazam

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silvarbelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvarbelle/gifts).



> In Which Aziraphale is a Terrible Magician, Crowley Not-So-Secretly Likes Children, and Crowley Plays A Prank On Aziraphale. 
> 
> @Silverbelle deserves 100% of the credit for the inspiration for this fic. I just executed it. <3 Love you, sister mine.

_ London, 2008, One Year After the Birth of the Antichrist _

Aziraphale was standing outside the barricades, watching the fire brigade unroll their hoses.  It seemed as if most of London had come out to watch Great Ormond Street burn. From the rumors being passed around out on the street, some sort of explosion had ripped through the fifth floor, but that was all.  There'd been some talk of  _ miraculous escapes _ and  _ lucky they got the children out, all righ _ t and Aziraphale was quite pleased with the situation, in so far as no life had seemed to be lost.

"So what's all this, then?"  As usual, Crowley had appeared out of nowhere to stand at Aziraphale's elbow, sunglasses on and hair pulled back out of his eyes.  His fingers were shoved in pockets too tight to accommodate his hands, and his voice was calm and subdued.

"Some kind of explosion at the children's ward," he explained, leaning in close so that his voice didn't carry.  "No one's sure yet what caused it, but it appears that the ward was nearly empty and no one was injured."

"It wasn't our lot," Crowley added quickly, watching the rainbows spiral off the hose spray.

"No, I didn't think it was," Aziraphale said, and he turned to face Crowley in time to see the shock pass over his features.  "Oh, give it over, even  _ I _ know you won't kill children.  You have your limits, after all."

Crowley scowled at the thought of himself being  _ limited _ by anything that could in any way be construed as  _ good _ .  "Well, just keep that under your halo for now, won't you?" he hissed at the angel.  "You're working the miracles then?"

Aziraphae nodded.  "Yes, None of the other children in the hospital are going to be injured today, they're all safely evacuated, and the fire brigade will find it delightfully easy to get the fire under control."

Looking around, Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose as if he were having a headache from the clamour.  "Right, I'll make sure they don't run out of water and make sure the kids find all their stuff miraculously survived."

"That's downright--well, I'm sure the children will appreciate that," he amended hastily, catching Crowley's glare at his compliment.  He couldn't help it; rehabilitating Crowley had become almost a side project. "I certainly do."

"Yes, well, you stay around and be seen doing good.  I'm going to skulk around a bit so nobody sees me." Crowley melted back into the crowd and was gone in seconds, leaving Aziraphale standing alone by the barricades.

\-----

There was a flier on the windscreen of the Bentley, and Crowley sent it bursting into flames.  How dare these puny little--deep breath. It was only a piece of paper, and it’s gone now anyway.  Horrifingly, the calming voice in his head sounded exactly like Aziraphale. Satan only knew he didn’t have a conscience, as it were, so he supposed Aziraphale in his head would be the next best thing to it.  

But as he got in, he noticed the fliers were on every other windscreen, too, and plastered in every window, signpost and street bench within eyeshot.  So he got out of the car, walked to the little blue number parked behind him and yanked the flier off.  

_ Great Ormond Street Children’s Rebuilding Committee presents a Gala Fundraiser! _

Crowley crumpled the flier up and tossed it in the passenger seat.  “For Hell’s sake, these people.”

The car whipped almost unnoticed through London traffic, and he ended up, as he supposed he knew he would, outside of the angel’s bloody bookshop.  Whose windows you could no longer see inside of because they’d been papered over with Great Ormond Street Children’s Rebuilding Committee fliers. Ripping one off the door, he shoved the door open and waved the flier in front of Aziraphale’s face.

“We’re closed--oh, it’s you.”  Aziraphale bustled over to close the door behind the demon, locking it again.  “For Heaven’s sake, this door was locked!”

“Didn’t notice.”  He kept the flier thrust out in front of him like a bag of refuse.  “Did you know these are all over your shop?”

Bright, happy smile.  “Oh, yes, of course. Chap came round this morning before I closed and asked if he could post one.  I told him to use as much window space as he liked. They’re still looking for acts, you know.”

“Acts?” Crowley asked, in the same tone of voice you or I might use for “Spiders?  In my toilet?”

“Well, yes.  Acts! Entertainment!  They’ve got one of the Eurovision people singing, and some of the children from the hospital, the ones who are able at least, will be there to greet people and shake hands, to put a face on the tragedy.  I gathered from the young man this morning that they’re still looking to fill in with some other acts, you know, whomever will donate their time and such.”

“Ohhhh,” Crowley groaned.  “I know that look. No. No, no, no, no, no.”  He held out his hand. “No.”

Aziraphale turned persuasive.  “I used to be rather a good magician--”

“No, you used to be an altogether terrible magician and I never told you so because it was funny for me,” Crowley corrected desperately.  Somehow, he already knew it was going to be a lost cause.

“I didn’t tell  _ you _ I thought it was a bad idea to turn the M25 into an occult symbol, but I still gave you a wahoo! for the effort,” Aziraphale retorted hotly.  “I am a delightful magician.”

Crowley didn’t mention nobody in Hell had given him a wahoo! for the effort.  “Angel, just don’t. I am begging you. Please.” Useless. He could almost literally see the idea taking form behind Aziraphale’s eyes, lighting up like candelabra.  “No.”

“I could always use an assistant,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley actually mouthed the words along with him.  “It’s much better with two, lively chatter and such always helps to distract from the slight of hand.”

“Yes, when the assistant is a beautiful buxom young lady with assets worth looking at,” Crowley pointed out uselessly.  “Besides, you can do actual magic, not this stupid human  _ look over at this hand and not this one! _ Type.”

“Oh, hush, you’re lovely.  You’re just the type of cool-looking dressed in black--though, really,  _ must  _ you? swaggering personage those young people today relate to.”

Crowley imagined Aziraphale thought he was being convincing and reassuring, instead of idiotic.  To his utter horror, he found it endearing. “I… no. No.”

Aziraphale pulled out the big guns.  “It’s for the children, Crowley. Look, it’s right there on the flier.   _ 100% of the proceeds from tonight’s benefit goes to rebuilding Great Ormond Street. _   Do you know what Great Ormond Street is?  A  _ children’s hospital. _   A place where sick and ailing children go to--”

“Yes, of course I know what it is,” Crowley snapped, and the gritting of his teeth was almost audible.  “But I am not going to be your bloody assistant!”

\---

Aziraphale stepped onto the small dais set up for rehearsals, and beamed brightly at the few clusters of children, some still attached to IV stands, who were sitting at the tables to watch what was happening.  “Hello, there, you all! I am the Amazing Mr. Fell,” and he genuflected broadly with many a waving arm. He got a few giggles for the theatricality, and it made him grin even more. “And I have the pleasure today of introducing my assistant, for one night only, the Alluring Anthony!”

A quite disgruntled Crowley stumped out on stage, with his bangs pulled back into a loose ponytail that dangled against the rest of his loosely-waved hair and sunglasses.  He did, however, break character a bit to wave at one little girl in a wheelchair, who giggled and waved back to him.  

“However, he prefers Big C,” Aziraphale added, and that got him another laugh.  “So if you  _ happen  _ to call him Alluring Anthony, he won’t be too upset with you.” He directed his next comment to Crowley under his breath.  “I saw that.”

“You need your eyes checked,” Crowley hissed back.  But he did turn and smile to the kids. “Get a load of this guy, right?  He’s going to try and pull something out of my--”

“Ear,” Aziraphale interrupted quickly, pulling a line of knotted, brightly-colored scarves out of Crowley’s ear.  Crowley pointed behind his back, and the kids laughed when the obvious end of the scarves were dangling out of Mr. Fell’s white tailcoat.

Aziraphale caught the gesture and slapped Crowley gently on the arm.  “You’re ruining the act!”

“They don’t seem to think so.  Come on, let’s give Mr. Fell a hand!”

The kids clapped on cue, and even some of the adults scurrying around with their clipboards and mobiles were smiling.

Aziraphale cottoned on pretty quickly how the routine was going to work, and he did not begrudge it one bit.  “I think it’s time we see how much spare change Big C has tucked away.”

“Take it from me, I don’t have any.”  Crowley was just standing there, hands shoved in his pockets.  

“Let’s have a look, shall we?”  Aziraphale knew he shouldn’t do it, would catch literal Hell for it, and did it anyway.  As he clapped his hands, Crowley was yanked upside down, and a rain of silver fell out of his pockets.  “What’s this?” He let Crowley drop to howls of laughter, and held out a one-pound coin. “Many more of these, and we’ll take the lot of you out for lollies.”  Another good-natured round of ribbing as Crowley got to his feet, and Aziraphale caught a distinct red glow behind Crowley’s sunglasses. “Not in front of the children,” Aziraphale stage-whispered.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”  The red glow got a little bit brighter.  

“Wasn’t he a good sport?  The Alluring and apparently slightly less wealthy Anthony!”

The little girl in the wheelchair clapped even harder, and Crowley snuck another look at her.  Pixie cute with brown hair down to her chin, even sickly as she was, she had an air of impishness around her, and Crowley pointed at her.  “I think she took your coin, Mr. Fell.”

Aziraphale looked down at his empty hand, and followed Crowley’s finger to see the girl clutching the coin in her fist.  “Well, looks like I’m not the only magician here,” he said with a grin. “What’s your name, lass?”

“Christine,” she said as loudly as she could, and even in the mostly empty room, it was difficult to hear.  

“Thank you, Christine, for your assistance.  If Anthony here decides to bow out before show time, perhaps I could hire you for the show?”  

Christine just beamed brightly as the act went on. 

\-----

Twenty minutes later, the act was over, the next act was on, and Crowley currently had Aziraphale pushed against the wall with an arm over his throat.  “What do you think you’re playing at, angel? I’m a demon after all, and if Hell catches wind of this, it’s not going to go well for either of us, because do you think they’ll keep it to themselves?  No, they love to spread the pain down there, Hastur will be on the line to Michael or Uriel faster than you could piss yourself and your wings would be on the chopping block faster than mine.”

Aziraphale swallowed roughly, forcing it past Crowley’s threatening arm.  “If you’re upset about the flip, we can certainly work that out of the act--”

“I’m not upset about anything!”  He thumped Aziraphale back against the wall.  “This is a very delicate time for us, in case you’ve forgotten, because the clock’s already ticking on Armageddon.  So tune it down, no more miracles, and don’t call me Anthony!” He let the angel go then, and straightened his shoulders.  “Got it?”

Aziraphale looked like a kicked puppy.  “All right, Crowley. I’ll drop out of the show.”

“No, you tit.”  He sighed. “You’re already on the bill and so am I.  Just… behave yourself, all right?”

He brightened a little at that, because it seemed that Crowley was agreeing with him.  “See you at the Gala tomorrow night, then?”

“I’ll be there.”  Crowley sauntered out of the theater, and sat behind the wheel of the Bentley.  He envisioned the neat sanctuary of Aziraphale’s book shop, and concentrated. Two snaps.  One for the book jackets, and one for the books.  

\-----

Aziraphale walked back to the shop, stopping by his favorite sushi restaurant on the way home.  He was just beginning his meal and eavesdropping on the kitchen chatter at the same time.  

_ “You’re very lucky, Din.” _

_ “Yes, fire could have gotten out of control very easy.  Lucky we had extinguisher nearby. Still don’t know what started it.” _

“I bet I do,” Aziraphale muttered.  “Soft, he’s getting quite soft.”  

\-----

By the time Aziraphale got back to the shop, it was late afternoon.  He had no intention of opening the shop today, and as soon as he unlocked the door, he was glad of it.  He knew, instinctively and automatically, that someone had been mucking about his shop.  

The stack of books by the door was the right height, but they were the wrong books.  These were the gardening books, and they belonged on the back shelf by the ladder, not up here.  “Crowley, I assume this is your doing.”

“Course it is.”  Crowley was hanging over the gold-plated balcony that also looked to be a compass, staying deliberately in the shadows and out of the oculus.  “Can’t get anything past you.”

“You know I can fix this.”  

“You know I can fix this,” Crowley mocked, watching as Aziraphale waved his hands and settled the books back into their proper places.  

“Although I must thank you for not burning down my favorite restaurant,” he added.

“I did think about it, but I figured this would bother you more, your precious books.”  

For some reason Aziraphale couldn’t fathom, Crowley was still smirking at him, and it was making him a bit testy.  “If that’s the best you can manage, you can leave.”  

He swaggered down the staircase as Aziraphale was telling him to leave.  “All right, angel, I’m going. I’ll see you later.” He threw a wink Aziraphale’s way, then donned his sunglasses as he prowled out the door.  

“Wanker.”  Aziraphale puttered around the shop, checking the shelves and seeing that all the books were back in order.  A full inspection took several hours, and when he was done, Aziraphale made himself a cup of tea (in the winged cup Crowley had bought him as a lark that one time in Wimbledon) and settled down in his armchair with his copy of  _ Miscellaneous Poems _ by Jonathan Swift.

He thought it was Jonathan Swift.  In fact, he was reading  _ A Selection of Psalms for every Sunday throughout the Year; with Hymns for different Occasions. To be sung at Trinity Church, Preston. _   Printed in 1818 by William Addison, priced a competitive £275.  

“No…” he said after a moment’s thought.  “No, he wouldn’t do that.” Getting up from his armchair, Aziraphale pulled three random books off the shelf.  A  _ Huckleberry Finn _ dust jacket was on a copy of  _ The Iliad, _ a dust jacket from  _ The Confessions of Saint Augustine _ was on Aziraphale’s prized signed copy of  _ The Portrait of Dorian Gray _ , and when he took the  _ Portrait of Dorian Gray _ off the shelf, it was attached to  _ One Thousand And One Tales From The Arabian Nights _ by Sir Richard Burton.  “Oh, that’s just cruel.”

He pulled several more off the shelf, only to find that not one single one that he checked had the proper dust jacket.  

That meant all the books he’d miracled into place earlier?  Were even  _ more _ out of order than he’d supposed.  

“CROWLEY, YOU ARE A BLOODY WANKER AND I WILL GET YOU BACK FOR THIS!” the angel bellowed.  

\---

Hastur looked up, surprised.  “Oi, look at that. Looks like the bastard’s doing his job after all.”

Ligur shrugged.  “Bet he’ll get another commendation from below.”

“Bastard,” Hastur repeated.

\---

Heaven was still ringing with the force of Aziraphale’s bellow.  “My my my, he must be thwarting that demon Crowley left and right, if Crowley’s done something like that.”

“Like what?” asked Uriel.  

“I don’t know,” Gabriel shrugged it off.  “Whatever it was that upset the demon enough to do whatever it was he did in revenge.  Got to give him credit, I thought he was just getting soft. But no, he’s still fighting the good fight.  Make a note in his file, would you?”

\----

The night of the Great Ormond Street Gala went off without a hitch.  With a bit of breathing room earned by Crowley’s prank, neither Heaven nor Hell paid very much attention to anything that happened for quite some time after.

However, several things of note did manage to happen.

The Gala’s organizer, Parker Featherstone, disappeared under mysterious circumstances the night of the Gala.  It came to light, after an audit of the books, that Mr. Featherstone had been skimming a solid 4% of the donation and ticket box, but the funds were, miraculously, found untouched in a bank box on the man’s desk.  His disappearance was written off to cowardice, and only a token investigation was undertaken.

The young girl in the wheelchair, Christine Halls, had what was called a miraculous recovery.  The endocarditis had all but disappeared, and the weakened valve had been strengthened around the stent.  

And most importantly, an anonymous donor had donated several cases of strawberry ice lollies to be distributed to patients and families.  

\---

Three months after the Gala, Great Ormond Street Hospital welcomed the displaced children back to “their” rooms.  Of course they’d been housed in other rooms and other wards, but now they were being brought back to their ward, and to their old rooms.  

Volunteers had helped the hospital staff move the childrens’ things back into the rooms, because most of their personal items had survived.  A small enough miracle for those poor children, nobody had given it a second thought.  

Except when each child returned to their rooms, there was a new addition waiting for them.  A large plush teddy, sometimes as large as the child itself, was sitting on the bed, brand new and bedecked with shiny white and gold ribbons around their necks.  

There had been a story about it in the newspaper, and Aziraphale had quietly saved the article for Crowley to read.  The photograph in the story had really sold it all;  _ young cardiac patient Christine Halls, 7, clutches a large teddy bear gifted to her and all the displaced children by an anonymous donor.   _ It was a lovely photograph, showing the big stuffed bear, complete with little red horns and a big red heart clutched in his paws.

However, if you looked at the photograph quite closely, you might have noticed that Christine was wearing a plush snake around her neck, and hugging it just as tightly as she held the bear.

\---

It had taken Aziraphale over a month to clean up after Crowley’s little prank.  He had had to carefully strip every dust jacket off every book, match it up with the proper title, and then place it back on the shelf or in the displays where they belonged.

Three months later, Aziraphale was  _ still _ incensed over it.  “I nearly called you in and made you help me, you fiend.”  He licked eagerly at the strawberry lolly that Crowley had bought him, while Crowley’s own cone was melting in the sun.  

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  His snake-like tongue whipped around the cone and licked up the drip before crunching the flake between his teeth.  “Besides, I’d have only undone what you fixed.”

“You could have at least had the decency to warn me what you were doing.”

“That defeats the entire purpose of doing it.”  He reached into his pocket and handed Aziraphale a ragged piece of paper.  “Got them off our backs for a bit, too.”

Aziraphale accepted the ragged page, and slipped a gilded envelope over to Crowley in exchange.  “Indeed. They were so happy I’d done something to thwart you, they made a note in my file.” He sounded so proud.  

Crowley looked at the gilded envelope and slid it into his pocket for later reading and derision.  No need to piss on Aziraphale’s parade today. “Coppers talk to you yet?”

“About Featherstone?  Yes.” He made a face.  “I don’t  _ like _ lying, Crowley.”

That made Crowley laugh.  “They asked if you’d heard anything?”  

“Yes, they did.  I had to say that I hadn’t, which, if you’d eaten him a bit more quietly like I told you to, I wouldn’t have.”  He looked quite put out at the memory. “Of course, they did also mention the money had been found and returned to the charity, so they weren’t really going to look too hard.”  

“I got heartburn from that fellow.  Indigestion for  _ days. _   I never get indigestion!”  Crowley was indignant.

“Serves you right.  Next time, chew your food before you swallow it down.”

“Right, because snake mouths are just made to chew,” Crowley pointed out, taking a bite of the chocolate cone once the ice cream had gone.

They sat in companionable silence for many minutes after that, finishing both cold treats and gazing at passers-by.  “Crowley, what are we going to do about… you know who?”

That earned a shrug as Crowley rolled his head over to look at Aziraphale.  “I don’t know, yet. I’ll come up with something.”

“You better make it quick, you old snake.”

“Right.”  Crowley got up from the bench, and offered Aziraphale his hand.  After a moment, the angel accepted it and let Crowley pull him to his feet.  “Call you as soon as I have something figured out.”

“Don’t be a stranger,” Aziraphale said, and meant,  _ don’t let it be so long before I see you again. _

Crowley’s lips quirked up into half a smile as he swaggered off.  “Can’t get rid of me that easy,” he shouted back over his shoulder before disappearing from sight.

The End


End file.
